


And Stay

by Serindrana



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serindrana/pseuds/Serindrana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I have killed King Cailan sixteen times. My father has fallen twenty. Loghain I have killed forty-three. It never ceases.” Where do revenants come from? And more importantly, why is Nathaniel Howe's luck so horrible that he has to go to the Fade to figure it out?</p><p>Post-Awakening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [And Rise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/289374) by [Serindrana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serindrana/pseuds/Serindrana). 



Nathaniel Howe stared at the creature before him. He could not wholly deny it humanity; beneath the helm that seemed a part of its very skull was a face that had once, he figured, belonged to a woman. But the lips were drawn tight in death, and rot and wrongness rolled from its tall, broad frame.

Once a woman, yes. Now, however, it was only a possessed corpse, a revenant of the nastiest order, locked away in chains and bonds that even a fully manifested demon could not hope to break.

Commander Surana stood beside him, arms crossed over her narrow chest. "Well," she said, watching as the revenant began to hiss and pull against its lyrium-inlaid manacles. It fought the lingering paralysis with spastic jerks. "Have you decided?"

"There must be somebody better suited to this," Nathaniel said, refusing to fidget or step away. Even now, showing weakness to his father's murderer-  _executioner_ , he corrected himself, and with that correction stopped that track of thought where it stood.

"Care to name them?" the willowy mage asked, turning to look up at him fully. Her dark hair curled wildly, out of its customary ties, and her brown eyes held violet around the large pupils. She was unsettling even without the tattoos, a shade lighter than her golden skin, tracing fierce lines up and down her cheeks and forehead. "Anders is long gone, as is Justice. Velanna is missing. And I won't send the new mageling Sigrun found wandering around near the Wilds on her last expedition - that's just a recipe for an abomination."

"Perhaps we should just put it off, then, commander."

"And lose the opportunity? Oh, no."

Surana turned back to the revenant, which watched her with unblinking eyes. Its fingers jerked, but she did not follow closer.  _No getting skewered this time around_. Nathaniel idly touched at his side where the creature's great blade had nearly pierced him all the way through. Magic was a wonderful thing; he'd barely have a scar.

"I've had to fight more than enough of these things, and yet none of my books and none of the Weisshaupt Wardens know anything about them beyond legend."

"You've killed enough of them, what does it matter?" he huffed.

"I would like," she said, slowly, as if speaking to a small child, "to know how they are made. In order to stop them from being made."

"I'm sure you will be very successful in your campaign to burn all of our dead. After all, if Andraste could get them all this far-" He felt a crackle of power up his spine and gritted his teeth, growling. "Enough!"

"Then come with me, Howe. Or I'll make it an order, and we'll see if you're up to a new round of insubordination."

His scowl turned to a grimace. Back when the immediate danger of talking darkspawn faded, he had found himself back in the same damn prison where he'd met her. At least she hadn't pushed him about training his nephew from birth to be a Warden since, and he had left a respectable scar on her left cheek.

And she hadn't kept it from scarring.

"Fine," he said at last. "But you know how much I hate the Fade."

"And if I offer you the chance, once we're done, to stay here in Denerim on leave a little while longer…?"

"Just do it," he said, and hoped his relief at her offer wasn't too apparent.

From the way she smiled, he didn't think he'd been too successful. "Let me just go get my lyrium," she said, a delighted trill in her voice. The King had given the Wardens a great gift of lyrium, a portion of the new unblocked trade between Ferelden and Orzammar. The Chantry, of course, wasn't particularly happy about the whole situation, but Surana rarely seemed to think about what the Chantry thought anymore.  _Thank the Maker she isn't a politician_ , he thought, then passed a hand over his head, smoothing his hair down.

They had come to Denerim to formally accept the gift, with him as Surana's acting second. He hadn't been terribly surprised when the attacks began; trouble and danger followed at Surana's heels like an adoring puppy. Undead, a few arcane horrors - the remnants, she had suggested, of the battle for Denerim a year ago during the Blight. The question  _why now_  hadn't passed his lips.

The woman, after all, was usually infuriatingly correct, even in the most unlikely circumstances.

It was routine clearing, snapping old bones and burning bodies. Even the revenant, dragging an ornate, heavy sword and batting aside their assisting guard like flies, was almost expected. It was either pure luck or skilled planning that Surana had hit the thing with a series of spells that rendered it paralyzed, disoriented, and quiescent.

Where the shackles had come from, he wasn't sure he should ask. A questioning look had only gotten him a little covert smile.

And now he was in the same room with a leashed revenant, all six heavily muscled feet of it, waiting to go into the Fade and track down its origin. Its purpose.

 _It just wants to kill us all. Isn't that what all demons want_?

The eyes were ragged pits with a light seeming to burn from within, little pinpoint pricks of sight. Could it see him, the form of him? Or was he only a sack of meat, to be slain and devoured? He watched as the beast slowed its frenzied thrashing, and instead began methodically testing each link.

It was down to its ankles by the time Surana returned, bearing a basin of the sparkling, silvery-blue liquid. It was odorless, but his nose twitched all the same at its presence, throat going dry.  _Maybe the brig isn't such a bad idea-_

"I don't have to drink that, do I?" he croaked out.

"Absolutely not," she said with a cheerful grin, setting it down on a small table. "Just come over here, place your hands over it." While he moved, grudgingly, to obey, she slipped up to the revenant and reached up a hand, plucking one half-rotted strand of black hair from beneath its helm. "There we go."

"What in the Void are you doing?" he asked as he fought to keep his hands from trembling over the basin.

"If we don't have an anchor, we're liable to end up anywhere, you know." She sauntered back, dropping the strand into the dish of lyrium. "We'll probably be separated when we arrive, though. Keep an eye out - for me, and for our friend here."

Nathaniel took a deep breath. "Right."

"Ready?" Her eyes glinted in the torchlight of the dungeon chamber.

He looked to the corpse and met its staring gaze. "As I'll ever be."


	2. Chapter 2

After the Blackmarsh, he had hoped never to step foot in the shifting landscape of dreams - while conscious, at least - again. And yet here he was on a ridge of dreamstuff that was trying desperately to be a rocky outcrop. It was almost convincing, except for how, if he canted his head, he could see through it as if it were air.

He scanned the horizon. There, of course, was the Black City. Anders had told him once that it was equidistant from all points in the Fade, and so could never be reached. He wasn't interested in testing it. There, in another direction, was a twisting spire of stone, some sort of almost-statue. Further off was what looked like the mast of an Antivan trade ship.

 _The dreams of others_.

So how did one find a revenant in the Fade? Surana had implied that they would end up close to their target, but at another look he couldn't see the brilliant flare of his commander on the dreamscape. His eyes ached from the effort. Peering into an abyss that continually reshaped itself left his head throbbing and his thoughts spinning. Better to look at the ground that was not always there.

He descended from the ridge, only to find himself atop another. Geography made little sense here, and mattered even less. Surana had joked once that a skilled mage could simply dance and end up wherever she pleased in the Fade. It was all a matter of thinking, she had said. She could have been lying - she often was - but having little else to consider by way of a plan, he took a deep breath.

 _A revenant who was once a very tall woman_.  _Dark hair. Denerim_.

Nathaniel took his first hesitating step forward, off of the crest of the ridge. Rock formed beneath his feet. It was a cobbled path, and it led him down, around, until finally he turned a corner and looked upon a high stone wall.

A castle wall. A keep wall.

The gate was not far off. He could hear shouting, pleading, but he grit his teeth. He would focus. Demons here could lure one off the path and tumbling down into- nothingness. Nobody here could be a truly hurting, real person, save for those who had been tossed in as he and Surana had been. The chances against such a thing were astronomical.

The gate, then. The cobbles stretched out along the side of the wall. He could see shadows moving along the top of it, but it towered so far above his head that he couldn't make out an outline, let alone features. He quickened his step.

The portcullis was drawn down. Behind it was another, and another. They seemed to stretch on forever, and he frowned. How to get through them? And should he bother? But his thoughts had led him here. It could, he supposed, be a dream to entrap him.

He focused on Delilah and his nephew instead of his fear.

"Hello!" he called, wrapping one leather-clad hand around a bar. "Hello, is the master of this house in!"

"No," a woman's voice replied, shouted down from the battlements. "She is not."

 _Right_.

"And who do I speak to now, my lady?"

"I am no lady."

"And are you a demon, then?" He craned his neck, shielding his eyes against a nonexistent sun as he tried to catch a glimpse of her.

She did not respond.

 _Gone_?

But no- he could hear footsteps, and then, beyond the portcullises, he could see a tall figure laden with heavy armor. Parade armor.  _Denerim royal guard armor_. He could not see the person's jawline, their hair, anything to give him an identity, but he felt his heart quicken all the same.  _Ornate armor_. It could be-

"And what do you know of demons?"

It was the woman.

It had to be their revenant.

He straightened his shoulders. "That you likely make a good choice by locking them out, ser."

"I am no knight."

Nathaniel quirked a brow. "Oh? Your armor speaks otherwise, freeholder...?"

"I am nothing and nobody. Turn, and leave."

"I must speak with you," he countered, stepping closer and pressing his face to the bars.

One of the portcullises drew up, enough to allow her to step closer. He could make out a narrow jaw and wide lips now, along with broad shoulders.  _Six feet tall_. "... Are you a Howe?" she asked, and behind the terse, tense crackle of her words and the usual prick of shame and anger he felt at being addressed only by his father's name, he could pick up a faint note of- questioning? Wonderment?

"Yes. Nathaniel Howe, the eldest. Back from the Free Marches, and here in the Fade to speak with you. Whoever you are, nobody."

She seemed to consider this for a moment. Her shoulders were stiff with tension, but soon fell in exhaustion. He watched as she turned from him. The cape that hung from her shoulders had once been emblazoned with the arms of Fereldan. Now it was fire-scarred and shredded, hanging on by mere threads.

"My name," she said, "was Cauthrien."


	3. Chapter 3

"So are you here to offer me some kind of wretched deal, or not?" she asked when his stunned silence began to stretch for too long. She still did not face him, though her armor flickered along the edges. He watched it in fascination while his brain did cartwheels fitting the pieces together. His thoughts moved too fast and it all fell together in a wave that left him staggered.

 _Ser Cauthrien_ , Loghain's right hand, accomplice to his father, monster of the Civil War. Revenant. Spirit locked behind high stone walls.

"No," he said, barely a breath, and then louder, "No. I only wanted to talk."

"As they all say. I will not deal with you, demon, and if you insist, I shall only kill you like all the rest."

"I'm not here to deal," he said, firmly, "or to bewitch, or entrance, or goad. I'm no demon. I am a Grey Warden."

She looked over her shoulder and he caught her scowl. "Nathaniel Howe, a Grey Warden."

"Yes."

He held his breath. The wailing around the bend of the walls seemed to be growing louder. Were they demons, begging entrance? He didn't relish the thought of being stuck here with desire demons, facing down their contorting bodies and silken voices. No- he had to enter, for his sake as well as Surana's.

"... The Fade," Cauthrien said in slow, measured words, "creates the unthinkable, from time to time. But somehow, I doubt it would have thought to create you. I never even considered the possibility. It was a non-object.

"Enter."

 

The portcullises did not so much open as disappear, giving him entry to the long hallway through the thick stone wall. She retreated from him as he approached, and behind him he could hear a singing note as the portcullises reformed. Cauthrien said nothing and he quickened his stride to close the distance between them and keep up.

As they walked, the landscape became dotted with trees. Amaranthine trees - one with flowers he knew all too well, and boughs perfect for climbing in as a boy. They passed through a small wood of them, and of meadow flowers and creeping vines. He followed her until the trees opened once more, laying bare a seemingly endless field of wheat and barley. A root garden wouldn't be so far away. He looked around, taking in what felt like fresh air.

 _Just a dream_ , he reminded himself.

When he looked back to his guide, she no longer wore armor and was instead wrapped in coarse woolens, a heavy calf-length skirt and an attempt at a summer blouse. Both were patched and patched again, and her shoes were worn. As she moved between imperfect rows of crops, she seemed to shrink, to lose a few of her solid inches to teenage gawkiness. Her hair descended from where it had been tucked beneath her helmet, coiling down her back and braiding itself as he watched.

A farm girl, not a knight. An Amaranthine farmgirl. Was this the same woman, or was it a desire demon attempting to play tricks on an arl's son, daring him to chase skirts and woo washerwomen? He snorted at the image, and Cauthrien looked over her shoulder.

She was younger, certainly, but the features were all there. Along with her narrow jaw and wide mouth, she had clear, dark blue eyes, a nose with a pinched bridge. She was still nearly as tall as he was, but she hadn't filled out quite so much. Her muscles were from splitting wood and plowing fields, not from endless marches and combat drills. Her hands were caked in dirt, not blood or sword oil. And yet it was still her, unmistakable even after only a few minutes of having known her.

"It is not so much farther, until we reach a place where we can sit," she assured him.

The fields began to fall away, the plants dropping in blight or poor care until at last a stretch of earth, pocked and barely covered with any grass or clover at all, filled the remaining few yards between them and a small cottage. On the porch stood a spinning wheel and farm implements, all used and worn. The metal stood rusted. Cauthrien climbed up the few uneven steps and settled herself on a low stool, elbows rested on her knees.

He stood, transfixed under her gaze.

"What is this place?" he asked at last.

"A fortress," she said. "Where the demons cannot find me."

"What are you- doing here at all?" He waved a hand at the expanse. In the far distance, he could see what might have been the shadows of her walls. "This is no place for those who aren't dreaming."

"I'm dead."

She said no more, rising from her seat to disappear into the ramshackle cottage. He didn't follow. He turned over those two simple words. She knew, then. She knew at least that she had fallen. And what else could he expect her to know? If she was here, and her body there- he shook his head. This was clearly a job for Surana, not for him.

And yet he was the one who was there, and he was the one whom she brought a mug of pungent tisane to.

"It's the only thing I remember vividly enough to recreate without taxing me," she said, half-apologetically. "And while I am here at home, I shall play the hostess."

"This is your home?"

"It was." She settled back onto her stool, and he sat, cross-legged, before her. "When I was a child. And the walls are modeled after Denerim's and after Gwaren's. The fields are the fields I always wished to have. Strong images. Those are the only things I have left. It would be more complete if I let a demon craft it, but... it's better this way. I think."

 _No doubt_. "Are all- the dead here?" he asked, taking a sip. The tisane felt hot, tasted sour and sharp, and he had to remind himself that he was drinking nothing but an imagined thing.  _Strong images_  indeed.

"No," Cauthrien said. "At least, I don't think so. I have never met them, if they are." She plucked at a loose thread in her skirt.

"Then-"

"A demon took my body while it was still warm," she explained, before he could press for it. "Laid in wait. Learned the muscles and the bones, I suppose. My body was not always the easiest to control, even if it was incredibly easy to command." Her gaze drifted to the horizon. "And so I am trapped here until- something. I don't know what. I suppose I'll know when it's time."

"You- certainly understand a lot." How else to respond to such a woman, stoic as stone and endlessly distant? He had heard stories of her, but those had been tinged with righteous rage, strength, guard dog mentality. Did death bring this sort of peace? Had his father found this?

He hoped not. He hoped the demons had torn his father apart. If he had to see him-

"I think that I've been here for... some time," Cauthrien said, interrupting his wandering thoughts. "It feels like an eternity. Several hundred lifetimes, and yet they are all mine. How long...?"

He rubbed at his jaw. "A year."

"Only a year." She fell silent.

Conversing with the dead. His thoughts would not come to order, and he couldn't be sure if it was the surreality of the situation, the way she seemed to shift and change before his eyes, or if it was because of something more concrete. Did his thoughts wander out of guilt? Out of a desire to flee?

He searched the horizon for any glimpse of Surana, bent his ear to listening for her. His efforts were returned with nothing.

But every so often, the still air brought him the sound of crickets. Toads. The cooling of an evening. The light did not change, and he couldn't see anything but waves of wheat, so instead he looked to Cauthrien. Her braid had loosened, and her hair curled along a somewhat softened jaw. She was smaller. A girl in truth.

She smiled sadly.

"Time loses meaning here, Nathaniel Howe. How can you measure the days when there are no days, when you no longer sleep and when the sky grows dark because of the will of another, or because of your own? There are no seasons. The crops are illusions.

"When I first came here, I couldn't so much as conjure a stone. I wandered endlessly. There were demons then, at every turn, though I can't imagine what they wanted. I don't have my own body to give them anymore. Somebody else got to it first. Perhaps they only want triumph. Perhaps I didn't pay enough attention at service.

"But when I grew tired and angry and realized I could not kill them easily, I began to build walls. I shut myself away. Better to wait out the siege. I don't want to die again, but I don't want to live on the run, either. And if I die, whatever tiny chance I have of being welcomed to the Maker's side seems to fade away with it."

"Then what do you do?" he asked, leaning towards her. Her skin was freckled and chapped from wind and sun. She had not had a gentle life.

Cauthrien met his gaze. "Continue on, until my body is slain."


	4. Chapter 4

"I don't understand," he said, frowning, even as his mind spun. There, there was a piece that Surana would want. But how did it differ from their usual approach? Remove the head. Slice out the heart. It gave the act a certain added justice, if it released souls tortured by eternity, but- "Isn't that the same as dying?"

"Maybe. Or maybe not." She shrugged. "But if I kill myself here, or if I am slain - I have much I have never atoned for. Surely you understand that?"

He straightened. "I can imagine, yes." If he had died in battle before helping Surana defeat the Mother, if he had died at the gallows before ever knowing the man his father had been, it would have been a disservice to himself, to the family name he still fought for. If he had given up...

"But how can I atone here? Tell me, for I wish to know." Her voice turned harsh and as he watched, her armor, pitted and charred, reformed around her. Her soft braid became a harshly restrained knot at the back of her head, and lines deepened around her eyes, her mouth.

"I became a Warden," he said, lifting his chin with a small flare of pride.

"And you only had to make up for the sins of your father," she said, bitterly.

Her words struck him bodily. He could have fought her on that. He could have fought, kicking and screaming, to prove to her that he was worthy, that he had done something great in rising above his anger and loss and rebuilding his family's honor.  _I am not my father_ , he could shout, or he could go back to old tactics and try to excuse what his father had done. He had certainly done that enough in the waking world. Instead, he schooled his breathing and rose, pacing along the length of the porch. Cauthrien did not move.

"How," he said at last, "do you become what you became?"

"A monster?" she asked, brow quirking. "Very easily, for some. Blind loyalty."

"I  _meant_ ," Nathaniel said with a barely restrained, frustrated growl, "how did the demon find you? Why  _you_?"

"A skilled form."

"And a guilty one. An ashamed one. One with seemingly endless reserves of pain. Is that true?"

She remained silent under his accusations.

He rounded on her. "That's why I'm here - not to come to know you. I need to know what  _made_  you, and how to destroy it. If my presence here is a burden, then send me away - but first tell me what you understand of yourself. Why  _you_?"

"I knew my luck hadn't changed," she said, softly.

He pulled back, reaching out a hand and resting it on one of the posts supporting the porch's roof. It felt like old, weathered wood, and he rubbed his thumb over a crack in it. No splinters lodged in his skin. His anger fell away. What use was it? He swallowed, then looked to her again.

"Did you make a deal?" he asked, keeping his voice calm and even.

"... No. Not like you mean." Cauthrien reached out, taking his cup and tilting it, watching the liquid within.

"So not with any demons?" he supplied, and she nodded.

"Only men and my conscience." She tipped the cup over. The steaming liquid fell down like rain, disappearing before it touched the wood. "My body wasn't burned, though. And I am, as you say, guilty. Maybe that was enough. Or maybe I was just  _unlucky_." Her gaze darted to him, accusing.

He bowed his head. "Maybe," he mumbled.

Cauthrien sighed. "Sit, Nathaniel Howe," she said, pointing back to where he'd been sitting before. A stool began to manifest. "And tell me how  _you_  came to be here." He watched as she grew younger and softer once more.

"My commander wanted to know what made a revenant," he said, nudging the stool with one booted foot. It stayed stable. He sat.

"The elf woman?" Something in Cauthrien's eyes seemed to light. Memories? Memories she wasn't accustomed to dwelling on?

Nathaniel nodded. "Yes. Surana." He hadn't expected to see that livening in her. Hadn't Surana been the one to kill her?

"Good," Cauthrien said, her lips twitching up into a semblance of a smile. "I'm glad to know she survived. She- Ferelden needs a new hero. Is she a hero, Nathaniel?"

"Of a sort," he said with his own wry half-smile. "Infuriating, but the people like her. She won over Amaranthine, too, and all my father's men now swear fealty to her or don't have heads. She's the acting Arlessa there."

" _Really_ ," Cauthrien breathed.

"I'd have thought you'd hate her."

"For what? Killing me? Showing me how I had failed?" She shook her head. "I could never hate Ferelden's savior." Her brow furrowed a moment. "Sometimes- I wish I had stood down. But I wasn't brave enough."

Nathaniel looked down at his hands. He knew little enough of what had happened at the Landsmeet. Loghain had died. Cauthrien had died. Alistair had been crowned. But a little drama began spinning out in his thoughts, of this woman in front of him - and how difficult it now seemed to imagine her in armor, instead of standing in her skirts with her long hair, facing down the force of nature that was Surana. He could only see her as a scared and angry girl, too scared to step aside and too angry to win.

Maybe she hadn't wanted to win.

She had thrown her life away because it was the only way she knew how to stand aside - only to be rewarded with  _this_. His gaze ranged back out over the distant crops, now waving in a soft breeze. There was a rustle, stalks of wheat shifting and bending. The yip of a dog broke the silence.

Nathaniel frowned as a mabari, young and unpainted, bounced from the fields and bounded across the open ground between them. It danced from side to side, back end wiggling in excitement. A companion that she'd invented, then? He blinked, and watched as Cauthrien stood, going to it, dropping to one knee and holding out a hand.

It sniffed at her, then yelped as she shot forward, grabbing it.

She dragged the dog up, one arm beneath its forelegs. He started forward, as if to say something, do something, but a knife had already formed in her other hand. She drew it fast and unflinching across the pup's throat.

It spasmed and blood ran down the front of Cauthrien's dress even as it flickered, half-armor, half-fabric.

When the dog ceased to kick, she strode quickly away from him. He followed only with his gaze, wide and staring, as she climbed hazy stairs to the outer wall. Was it so close, then? Or was it another case of distance holding no meaning here? She reached the top, and he could see her silhouette as she threw the corpse down on the other side.

He waited for a bellow of challenge, of rage, but none came. She simply turned and climbed back down the stairs. She walked with measured steps away from the wall, which vanished from sight. The blood dripped down and left the fabric as clean as it had been before.

Her hands remained stained.

"What-"

"An agent. So to speak. When my defenses lower, they try to send things to me that they think will make me falter. They are an offering, and a wedge into my realm." Her gaze grew distant, as it often did. "I have killed King Cailan sixteen times. My father has fallen twenty. Loghain I have killed forty-three. It never ceases."


	5. Chapter 5

"Well," she said, wiping her hands on her now-clean skirt, the knife long gone, back to whatever ether it had been created out of, "you might as well come inside. I don't know if walls stop them from seeing, but they do seem to keep them at a distance. Besides, I can remember food a little better in a kitchen."

He followed, numbly, thoughts caught up on trying to order the horror of it all.  _Loghain I have killed forty-three_. How many times had they sent her forgiveness and absolution, only for her to be forced to strike it down? He tried not to think of how  _he_  would have fared. He would have bowed at the fifth or sixth attempt, he was sure.

Then it wasn't weakness of spirit that had left Cauthrien's body vulnerable. He sighed and pinched at the bridge of his nose. He was no theologian. He couldn't make sense of this.

But Surana-

A wave of warmth met him as he crossed the threshold, stepping in to a homey cottage decorated with reminders of a life well-lived. Simple woven tapestries. Old armor, well-polished and well-loved. Pottery from not just Amaranthine, but Rainsfere, Redcliffe - some even from the Wilds down south. There was the ornate sword the revenant still carried in the waking world, hanging on the wall. (If that were melted down, here or in the real world, would that break the link?)

(Even if it would, he decided, it was harder to do than killing the creature out right.)

"It wasn't as strong as all this when you arrived," Cauthrien said, standing at the hearth where a merry fire flickered. "I think- that talking to an outsider helped. And hearing that Surana is alive." She nudged at a wooden spoon in a pot. He could smell something hearty, hear it bubbling inside. "You work with her, then?"

He nodded.

"First Maric's bastard, and now Rendon's heir. The Wardens do find interesting men to fill their ranks."

"It wasn't my choice, originally," he told her, and she gave an unsurprised nod. "... I would have killed her, if I'd gotten the chance, early on. But fate got in the way. Or cowardice."

That drew a small smile from her. "Well," she said, "your cowardice has brought you to a better place than it's brought me. Sit down?"

Slowly, he lowered himself onto a well-carved bench. She turned away from him, prodding at the stew or soup.

He pursed his lips, then ventured, "Did your father make this bench?"

In an instant, the wood became more textured, the carvings and joins more distinct.

"He did. My brother helped him."

"Then I think you're right, that talking to me is helping," he said, with a soft chuckle.

Cauthrien paused, then came close to him, kneeling and running her hands over the exposed wood. This close, he could see lines of exhaustion etched her features, and on an impulse he reached out, resting a hand on her shoulder. She looked more real than she had at any moment before, more real than even the horrid reality of the revenant. He swallowed thickly.

"Does it make it easier?" he asked, and she looked up at him, and nodded.

Impulse was everything in the Fade. Impulse was action, as the dreamstuff took first thoughts and began to shape itself on them. Where in Amaranthine or Denerim he would have never lifted his hand to her cheek, this imposing woman who he'd only known a short while, here he cradled her jaw in his hand as if he had loved her for a lifetime.

He could not have withstood this - any of this. And yet she held out, hoping for some true forgiveness.

Slowly, Cauthrien rose up, never once breaking contact with him. Her eyes seemed brighter, more vividly blue, and he could make out faint veins beneath her skin. Her cheek grew warm against his palm.

She leaned in, hesitant and unsure, no doubt weighing risk and reward. And then she kissed him.

She was no desire demon; that was clear in how faded her lips felt, how airy, how like fog that could evaporate in an instant. He had faced desire demons before, knew how resilient and perfect their flesh felt beneath his hands. To take hold of her was to try to take hold of a curtain, snapping in the wind and always just out of reach.

The kiss effected some sort of change, though, and soon he could feel heat, moisture, as she remembered and rebuilt what she had been. Beneath his hands he could feel her cheeks thin as her body once again grew older, but her hair remained unbound, and soon he could feel individual strands drifting over the backs of his wrists.

Perhaps, perhaps if he could just remind her of the vitality she once had, she could force out the demon under her skin, and-

Become a walking corpse, like Justice?

He quashed the thought, and instead pulled her tighter to him.

The heat in the room began to fade, replaced by early autumn chill, and at a break in their hurried, fretful kisses, he glimpsed hay strewn around them. A barn? She caught his hesitation and looked around.

"This is where-" she began, then shook her head. "I was a girl, one of the only times... I only have my memories to go by."

"Think of home," he murmured, and she closed her eyes and took several long, slow breaths. He waited as the hay dissolved into streaks of sunlight on a stone floor, until those too fell away to earth and the colored light of day peeking through a striped tent.

"Ostagar," she says with a weak and unsteady smile. "The last place I was before..."

"Everything fell apart," he offered, and at her small nod, he leaned forward and kissed her brow.

She let out a small, muffled sob as she dropped her cheek against his shoulder.

"Stay strong," he said. Her shoulders rose and strengthened, and when she lifted her head again, her expression was set to a small, confident smile. She kissed him again, and he let himself fall into it.

She would keep her walls up around them, surely.


	6. Chapter 6

If he had met her when she was still alive, what would he have seen?

He had once thought himself a master of seeing motivations, but months of following Surana around had proven that he wasn't as good as he thought. Without the undulations of the Fade, would he have seen Cauthrien's guilt, her sorrow, her determination? The last, surely. But the others he suspected she would have hid too well.

If he had met her when she was still alive, would he have been able to  _keep_  her alive, or would he have just stood and watched her fall? At least, he told himself, he would have made sure her body was burned to ashes.

Still, the thought that in only a little time, he would kill what remained of her body, and lose this place forever-

He started out of his reverie at the smell of smoke. They were in the cottage again, and beyond its walls, through the unglassed windows, he could see flames leaping up.  _The fields_. He shot to his feet and barreled through the door, looking for Cauthrien.  _An attack? A demon?_

She sat on the edge of the porch in armor he did not recognize, hair cropped short, head in her hands.

"Go back to sleep," she said without shifting. "It won't reach the house. I don't think."

"Are we under attack?"

"Not... not in the way you mean." She sighed, a dead and weighty sound, and his chest tightened. For a few moments, back in the memory of her tent at Ostagar, he'd thought he'd- what? Saved her? Eased her pain, at least. But the pain was still clearly there. Could a spirit even change, or was the truth that even as the landscape faded and twisted and her body went through all the transformations of age, she would stand there, mind calcified?

He reached out to touch her shoulder, trying to untangle her vague answer. "Is it you, then?"

She nodded, lifting her head. "When you heard of what happened to your father," she said, slowly, as if waiting for the tension that stole into him and curled his fingers tight, "didn't you look at your future and see... every horror you could possibly imagine?"

"Yes."

"This is the same." Without looking at him, she rose to her feet, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. "It's hard," she said as the armor fell away and she once more became the farmer woman he'd grown used to in her bed, "for me not to create  _might-have-beens_."

"I know," he said.

She took a little longer to steady, for the flames to die out, but when the smoke faded to nothing he could see that the walls had grown closer to them. The expanse of crops and forest weren't so endless now. They were concrete. Measurable. Vibrant.

So he  _had_  done some good, after all. His hand, no longer on her shoulder, touched her elbow gently. She looked back with a faint smile.

"Thought I might make the housekeeping more reasonable," she said.

"Planning on entertaining guests for a while longer?"

He'd enjoy the reprieve, he decided. If it took Surana a day, a week to reach them, as long as he could still return home, he wouldn't mind so much sitting on a porch with this woman. She had many other stories buried inside of her. He'd delight in hearing them all.

Cauthrien's smile had broadened, though she ducked her head when he quirked a brow in question. "I wouldn't mind," she said. "You could tell me about the Free Marches. That's where your father sent you, right?" He nodded. "I never got the chance to go."

"Would you have liked it half so well as Ferelden?" he asked, hand curling around her upper arm just enough to draw her close. The boundaries of her firmed once more, even as she laughed and shook her head.

"It could have surprised me," she said.

"Ansburg has as much mud as Amaranthine ever has."

The skin around her eyes crinkled in amusement as she fell quiet again, and he was just about to lean in to kiss her when she turned away from him.

"Cauthrien?"

"I have something to ask of you," she said, and he followed as she set out for the walls. They were halfway up the narrow stairs when she paused and glanced back at him. "Do you know where my body is?" At his nod, she continued climbing, looking only ahead. "I had assumed as much. So you'll swear to me to destroy it, when you leave this place?"

"Of course," he said. Only after the words were said did he flinch and realize that, perhaps, it wouldn't be so easy. Still, she seemed to hear only conviction in his voice, and that was probably for the best.

"Then I don't have much time left, do I? Once you leave here? You seem like a capable man, Nathaniel Howe, even if you did take a different path than I would have thought."

"And what would you have thought?"

"Dishonor, ignominy, exile. If I'd expected you, I would have expected a very angry young man."

"Oh," he said, "I'm angry. It's just settled a bit." They reached the top of the wall, and he leaned on the stone beside her, looking up. "It took a while, and a lot of nights spent in a cell, but I've finally got my head on straight. For the most part."

"I envy you," she said, and he flinched.

"No, don't. I would have killed Surana, if my plans hadn't all gone wrong. I didn't believe anybody about my father until I found my sister-"

"But you took your chance to atone," she said, voice softening. Her hand came to rest on his back. "I didn't think I'd ever get one. Maker, I was a coward."

He glanced at the Black City in amusement, but before he could say something clever and reassuring, he froze. There, on another island drifting in the shifting ether, was a blaze of magic he knew all too well.

And it looked like it was fading, wisps of it being pulled away in all directions.

"Surana," he breathed, fingers scrabbling on the crenelation as his hands threatened to turn to fists. "That's Surana."


	7. Chapter 7

The stairs grew shorter as they raced down them, the great hall of the portcullises shrinking to a doorway as they sprinted through. Nathaniel felt even the earth beneath them contract, speeding them along, until suddenly he could no longer hear Cauthrien's footsteps beside him at all.

He stumbled and slowed as he looked over his shoulder. She stood at the gateway to the home she had built, and she stared out, afraid.

"Cauthrien-"

"Give me a moment," she rasped, the sound barely carrying.

He swallowed thickly. "No," he said. "No, stay here. I'll take care of this. Protect-"  _yourself, your spirit, your home_.

The soldier, now in armor once again, shook her head. "These walls can be rebuilt."

She didn't sound certain. Not at all.

"Stay here," he said again, and turned from her. It wasn't so far to that next island. He would find way across. He-

Her booted footsteps seemed too loud as she closed the space between them. Her expression, when he glanced her way, was set. The walls behind her were crashing down, and he tried not to falter or wince.  _These walls can be rebuilt_ , he told himself.

When he glanced back again, there was nothing. No walls. No fields. No cottage.

The Fade had taken it all back.

"This way," Cauthrien said, veering off down a narrow pass. When had she gotten ahead of him? Her strides seemed longer, heavier, and he fought to keep up with her.  _Surana_. Surana was being torn apart in the Fade. If the demons took her, he wouldn't ever find a way out. His body would waste away in a room with Cauthrien's corpse, while an Abomination wearing Surana's skin would be unleashed on Denerim. He ran faster.

Cauthrien didn't stop at the edge of the island they were on, instead barrelling forward and taking a leap. He closed his eyes and followed. His feet struck hard ground, and he looked down to see a stone bridge forming before them and crumbling behind them.

"Focus on the distance between us," Cauthrien called over her shoulder, "and shrink it. Fold it."

He tried to see stones shrinking, mortar disappearing, but the bridge only began to buckle beneath him. He swore and jumped forward to Cauthrien's section, immediately abandoning those images. The stone firmed up.

There. There, on the horizon, were the cliffs and towers of the next island. He could see Surana, a flare of burgundy and green against the shifting sky. In the Blackmarsh, she had seemed like a banner. Here, though, her spirit was like wool rovings, unravelling, being drawn away bit by bit. His gut turned to lead.

"Sloth," Cauthrien whispered.

"What?"

"There-" she said, pointing to a dull grey that seemed to be weaving in to Surana. "That's Sloth. I've faced demons like it before, but not often. Be careful. It will make you want to lay down all of yourself, and sleep for ages. Hold something in your thoughts that requires action, that you  _need_  to be able to do. It's the only defense I've found."

Nathaniel nodded, skin prickling. He had faced desire, hunger, pride, and even once wanted to punch Justice in a moment of bad judgement and ire. He could do this.

He focused and brought forth a bow from the ether, along with replicas of arrows he had fletched, brilliant enough in his mind from how many hours he had handled them. His armor coalesced around him, replacing the bare echo of clothing that had covered him before. He stepped off the stone bridge, lifted his bow, nocked an arrow, and drew back.

The ground folded and shrunk between him and the grey wisp, and soon he could make out the head of the creature, a narrow target. With a breath, he released.

The arrow stopped mere inches from the demon's head at an upturned hand, that then turned over and batted down lazily. Nathaniel watched as the arrow bounced and rolled on the ground, and came to rest against the crumpled form of Surana.

She was curled on her side. He couldn't see any blood or any injuries, but her breathing was shallow. Her eyes appeared open, but were unfocused and unseeing. Cauthrien drew up beside him, and spared him a faint, grim smile before stepping forward.

"Release her," she said, voice clear and loud.

The demon turned to her, frowning. "Oh," it said. "It's you. I don't have the energy for you." It made a shooing motion with one hand, and she flew back as if an ogre had slammed a fist into her gut. She tumbled across the ground, and before she could rise, Nathaniel had loosed another arrow, only to have it batted away again. "Stop that," the demon said, voice slow and thick. "I'm not interested in you two."

Cauthrien crawled to her feet again. This time, she said nothing as she advanced with slow steps, as if trying not to startle their foe. The demon just watched, heavy-lidded.

"You don't want to fight," it sighed. "You want to go back to your fortress. There's a cottage there that you like, hm? Very relaxing. No demons at all. No enemies."

The muscles in her neck jumped in the moment before a helmet formed around her head and she rushed forward, sword appearing in her hands as she swung down hard across her body. He loosed another arrow, and this time it struck the distracted demon. It groaned and lashed out with one arm, and again Cauthrien staggered back.

Thick, dark liquid welled up in the cut along its front and dripped down its side from where the arrow was lodged. Those wounds would have killed a man. Nathaniel grit his teeth.  _Demons_  didn't have the decency to die easily.

"That wasn't nice," the demon said, as he reached out and caught Cauthrien's next swing. It grunted as another arrow slammed into its side, then shook his head. "You can't win, you know," it continued. "So why," it said as it wrenched the blade from Cauthrien's hands, "don't you just," as he struck her down and turned to Nathaniel, "rest?"

The full brunt of its power washed over him, blotting out the already dull colors of the Fade, and it was all he could do to think about- killing darkspawn. Yes, that would take energy, that would take so much effort. His bow dropped to the ground and he grit his teeth at the sound. He had to leave this place, and kill Cauthrien's body, and...

But killing darkspawn was grueling, and messy, and some days he hated it more than anything in the world. He shook his head, trying to think of the days when it was pure elation, when every death made his blood sing from the Taint in it.  _The Taint_. He'd never have a family. He'd never really trust himself around his nephew, because what if it took him?

 _Cauthrien_. He tried to focus on her wretched body, chained and rotted and possessed. She deserved an end.

Except it was far easier to think of her in her cottage, every detail of her life becoming crystal clear once more, every comfort becoming all the more soft and welcoming. He could do that for her. He  _had_  done that for her.

That took effort, right?


	8. Chapter 8

Warm wind danced across the fields, all but bare this early in the spring, all rows of dark loam with tiny budding plants. The same earth was caked under his nails and streaked across his hands. His brow was dotted with sweat. It would be a warm year, for sure, but with the promise of good rain.

From a nearby paddock came the bleating of goats as they were let out of the barn at last. Following them was Cauthrien, moving at a steady, stately pace. He smiled at her as he straightened. To think, he'd mourned the loss of his lands, his title. This was so much easier, simpler. He'd lived long enough outside of cities and away from luxuries when he was squired that a straw mattress and a single hearth were beautiful and sweet. And then there was Cauthrien, carrying pails of milk, her hair long and softening the lines on her brow. He could watch her all day.

And to think, he'd expected the nearby villages to fear them, to hate them for setting up their small farm, and instead, they'd welcomed them with open arms. It wasn't perfect. Sometimes there were dark looks and whispers in the marketplace. But most of the time, if they needed something, a neighbor would give it freely.

This was not the life of an arl's son, no, but it was a good life. He think he liked it more, all things considered. Here, his children wouldn't be drilled in niceties and intrigue until they hated him. Here, he couldn't be tempted by money and power to betray his family, to ruin his legacy. No, his children...

His children.

Had Cauthrien's belly always been so swollen? It seemed like only a few hours, a few days before, she'd been as trim as when she'd been a soldier. He squinted, frowned, even as he watched her set down those pails and come closer. She lifted a hand to his cheek as he peered at her.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, and it was the utter selflessness in those words that startled him.

"You're not-" he said, and she only laughed.

"Of course I am. Are you lost in your fantasies again?" Maker, but she looked so carefree, so relaxed. Sure, she was worried about the health of one of the younger goats, and the ongoing plantings, but it was nothing compared to what had once weighed her down. He couldn't help but smile.

"I suppose so," he said, shaking his head with a bashful smile.

"Come on," she said, holding out a hand. "We need to get the house cleaned up before Surana gets here."

 _Surana_.

Surana, coming to a farm to visit him? His thoughts once more ground to a halt, and he frowned, clenching his hands to fists. No, Surana had no love of country comforts. She enjoyed her books, and her status, and her power. She enjoyed her friends.

He was not one of her friends.

"Did you say Surana?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

"She wrote you that letter, saying she was coming by for Summerday." Cauthrien hesitated, then reached out to touch his elbow, lightly. "I know you're afraid of her taking you away on another job, but I'm sure if we explain the situation..."

His brow furrowed. "I'm a Grey Warden," he said.

"Of course. But even Grey Wardens-"

"Grey Wardens give up their families."

Cauthrien's expression began to darken. "You already gave up one family," she said, hand tightening. "Don't make yourself give up another. Not with so much to lose now. Nathaniel-"

He swallowed around the hard lump in his throat and tried to pull away. Her hand only tightened, until her fingers began to dig in deep, wedging into the joint. He hissed in pain. "Cauthrien," he cautioned, and then shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. " _Demon_ -"

Her face shifted, eyes becoming too dark, mouth stretching far too wide. "How could you?" she asked, but instead of pain, he only heard the measured, dreary cadence of the demon's voice. "How can you do this to your family?"

"I have a family. I have a sister and a nephew and I will  _not_  be taken from them by a mockery of the dead," he gritted out, and the illusion fell away, fog clearing quickly enough to make his head spin. The demon's hand let go of him as he fell to his knees, dry-heaving and shaking.  _Kill me_ , he wanted to say, to spit.  _Kill me before you bewitch me_.

Another hand closed around his elbow, yanking him up, but this time it was Cauthrien in truth. He could tell by how her gaze was fixed straight ahead, unwavering, and how unflattering her form was. Every line, every harsh pull of her hair against her scalp, every imperfection in her armor - that level of honesty and of self-criticism could only come from her. He let her yank him behind her, and instead of focusing on bringing back armor and weapons that seemed as elusive as morning fog, he went to Surana's side.

She was dull, barely shining, and he shook his head with a snort. "Get up," he said, softly, concern meeting frustration. "You're better than this, Commander."

A wave of heat crashed into them both, and he looked up, startled. The demon had apparently abandoned its more subtle attacks, its form shifting to a pillar of fire with vaguely humanoid features. Cauthrien stood her ground between it and them, a breaker against the flames. She was like Justice, facing down that witch's citadel: a creature of the Fade against the Fade itself, stalwart and unbending.

But he could see small cracks forming in her armor, and he redoubled his effort, shaking Surana. Up close, she was still a small body, looking younger than he had ever seen her. Her dull glow swirled up from her limbs, leaving behind pallid flesh. " _Surana_ ," he said again. He reached for her hand. It was clawed and cold as ice, and he wove his fingers into it.

"You don't want this thing running around in your skin, do you?" he asked, gritting his teeth and forcing himself not to look up at a loud scream, a crash. "You're the most powerful mage in Ferelden. You killed the Archdemon, and you're just going to lay down and die?"

"'m tired," she mumbled, and tried to curl up further.

At least it was a response. What he wouldn't give for a bucket of ice cold water- or better yet, beetles. That had always gotten Delilah out of bed (though he, on point of honor, had remained 'asleep' when his siblings had tried to turn that trick back on him). He was halfway towards conjuring the bucket out of his memories when a bolt of ice flew past him, embedding itself in Surana's shoulder.

She woke with a roar, shaking the stone on which they stood. Surana stumbled to her feet, panting, eyes wide and unfocused. An unseen wall shoved into him, and he fell back, winded.

Cauthrien turned for just a moment, eyes widening, before the demon she was fighting abruptly stopped.

It canted its head.

And then it rushed inside Cauthrien, through every crack in her armor, until her eyes were as dead as the revenant.


	9. Chapter 9

_No no no no_ -

Cauthrien -  _the demon_  - advanced with grim determination, an executioner in red steel armor. He waited for her to lift her sword, for her to call down a hundred other demons. Step by step she drew closer. He tried desperately to remember what his bow felt like.

It didn't form.

But instead of attacking, she dropped to one knee before Surana and hung her head, baring her neck. "End this," she rasped. "Finish the job."

Surana lifted a hand, writing a hex with flicks of her fingers. The familiar pattern glowed to life beneath Cauthrien's feet, red and foul. Cauthrien didn't flinch. That hex would make every blow linger, would allow for no aid. A single prick could kill a man caught in that hex, forcing him to bleed out drop by slow drop.

"Surana, don't," he said, moving between the two women, careful to keep both in his field of vision.

"This is the revenant, Howe?" Surana's voice was eerily flat. How tired was she still? How  _angry_ , at so nearly losing herself?

"I- yes, but-"

"I killed her once," Surana said, pulling threads of flame from the air as if spinning yarn, "and I will do it again."

 _I don't want to die again. If I die, whatever tiny chance I have of being welcomed to the Maker's side seems to fade away with it._ Where was the Cauthrien who had said that? Drowned, underneath the demon's pall.

"She's  _possessed_ ," Nathaniel spat.

"And I have killed many demons in my day, too."

Surana took a step closer. The demon remained immobile in Cauthrien's skin.

"She doesn't want to die," he pressed.

Surana snorted. "No," she said, "I don't suppose she does."

"And if you kill her," he said, stepping away from Cauthrien and towards the mage before him, crackling with power, "and the demon  _lives_ , we fight it without her help. Doesn't it occur to you that it's a bit strange for a possessed creature to ask for death?"

"Perhaps she's more in control than you think," Surana answered, meeting his gaze. "Step aside."

"No." Cauthrien was all tight-wound control, but he had  _seen_  the demon press into her skin. Those were not Cauthrien's eyes. "No, I know her, and that is  _not_ -"

His breath stopped and he lurched forward, only slowly looking down to see the tip of the Summer Sword punching out from just beneath his sternum. His lungs rattled and throat squeaked, hands lifting. Blood ran hot down his front. He remembered the revenant, remembered this same blade skewering him, remembered the agony of Surana's healing.

He tried to focus on how he had survived, but the blade began to press down, crushing organs, severing flesh. He whined, high-pitched and distant. He could hear Surana shouting, could feel as the demon let go of Cauthrien's blade, but all he could do was crumple to his hands and knees. Each panting, labored breath jarred the metal still in him. He could feel each splash of blood against the stone beneath him.

Maybe he would just wake up. Maybe death meant waking up, like in a dream. Or maybe he would fall.

The ground became soft and he began to sink.

" _Nathaniel!_ " It was Surana shouting for him, and he scowled and turned his face away. He didn't want chastisement. He wanted to have never come here, to be far away, to have stayed in the Marches and never known that his father was dead. Why hadn't the demon given him  _that_  dream? He would have gladly stayed there.

It stopped hurting as much, the putty surrounding him stabilizing the blade as he sunk to his elbows. A few more inches and it would cover his chest. Soon it would crust his eyes shut and he wouldn't have to fight the urge to look at another shout, another scream. He wouldn't have a choice.

Scrabbling hands twisted into the amorphous substance that was all he could remember of a shirt, and he sobbed as those hands jarred the sword. He clawed into the putty, trying to anchor himself, but whoever had him was too strong, wrenching him free. The sword was gone a moment later, and it was Cauthrien, all metal-covered hands and sweat-soaked brow, who cupped his jaw and shouted his name.

"It hurts," he whispered.

"Well, stop it," she said back, and her voice shook. Her eyes were no longer glassy. He could hear fighting somewhere beyond them. Good; Surana must have dragged the demon kicking and screaming from its shell. Cauthrien was alive.

The thought startled a harsh laugh from him. Yes,  _alive_ , if one only meant  _dead and trapped_  instead.

She slung an arm around him, pulling him to her side. "Make the wound close," she ordered, and with a gasping shudder, he did. The ground beneath them firmed on its own accord. "Can you stand?" she asked.

He shook his head.

She sighed, and lowered him to the ground. "Stay there," she said. "Alive. Whole.  _Thinking_." Her lips quirked for just a moment before her helmet reformed, and she took off running towards the light show that was Surana and the demon.

Gingerly, he reached to touch his stomach.  _Whole_. There was no blood left. He thought of the mabari pup with its slashed throat and its disappearing blood. None of this was real. Not the ground, not his wounds. Not, he realized with a frown, his exhaustion. Slowly, he stood up, focusing hard on the days when battle had left him not dragging himself to safety but invigorated, strong, addicted to the rush of it. His bow formed in his left hand, an arrow in his right. The comforting weight of a quiver on his back made him straighten. He focused on the ground between him and the fight.

It buckled and folded with ease.

Surana had fallen back, with Cauthrien holding the demon off. He waited until the old soldier had dodged to one side of it, leaving it an open target, before he drew. Time seemed to slow. A single arrow could do this, if he did it right. It was weak already, and he had killed stronger enemies.

He took a deep breath, and let fly.

The demon dropped.

Surana let loose a few more testing spells, but the demon's essence was already being torn apart by the winds of the Fade. Cauthrien gave it a kick for good measure. He broke into a gentle jog until he reached them.

"Good shot, Howe," Surana said.

He shrugged.

Cauthrien stood a bit apart, looking out at the horizon with a grimace. The threat was ended, and she was left with no walls to slink back behind. She was whole, but not real. His brow furrowed. Surana followed his gaze to her.

"So, Ser Cauthrien," the mage said. "You're really our revenant?"

Cauthrien looked over her shoulder, startled. "It's my body, yes," she said, slowly. "And I would appreciate if you killed it."

"And what happens then?"

"I don't know." Her smile was thin, and as he watched, she lost her armor and grew soft again, vulnerable. "But it seems like the correct order of things."

Surana nodded, thoughtfully. "Well, I don't suppose that will be too hard to do. Howe can slit your- its throat."

Nathaniel opened his mouth to protest, but Cauthrien nodded and her smile broadened. "I think I'd like that," she said.

He scowled. "This isn't how the stories usually go, is it?" he whispered to her. "Usually, the knight rescues his lady with a kiss. It's not  _the Warden plunges his knife into the remains of a war criminal, and they all moved on, happily ever after_ -"

Surana cleared her throat.

Ah- debriefing would be unpleasant. He sighed, running a hand back through his hair, then holding it out to the old soldier. "I'll do it," he said.

She took his hand, gauntlet falling away, and he tried to memorize the whispering feeling of skin on skin, all her callouses and the length of her fingers. "Thank you," she said. "... And do it quickly, please. Time loses meaning here. I don't want to linger another five lifetimes."

He nodded, throat thickening. "Of course," he said.

"And make sure I'm properly burned. And-"

"There's a cottage out in Amaranthine, right?"

She nodded. "If the darkspawn didn't get it. By the Hafter, at its westernmost bend. Outside of Grantham. There's a set of memorial stones out by the northern field. There's an old tree-"

"Show me?" he asked, voice soft.

The desperate tension in her brow and shoulders softened, and the landscape around them began to change.


	10. Epilogue

Beyond the walls, the moon was edging back towards the horizon, swollen and too-bright. Nathaniel appreciated the lack of windows, the lack of any light beyond the torch burning in the hallway outside of the room. It made the details of the revenant's face harder to make out. Without strong light, he could pretend the narrow jaw and wide mouth weren't there. He could pretend he hadn't felt a memory of curves and muscles against him. He could pretend that each brittle strand of hair hadn't once belonged to a soldier who hadn't deserved to die.

He could step forward, sword in hand, and contemplate the angle and force it would take to lop off the demon's head.

The revenant's fingers curled, fetid breath hissing between its remaining teeth. The dark blue eyes he'd grown accustomed to had either rotted or been eaten by maggots long before, sparing him  _her_  gaze. Still, he didn't step forward. His fingers tensed around the hilt of his blade, then relaxed, unwilling to take its weight.

"It's not her," he whispered. "You're not her."

Behind him, no doubt, Surana stood in the hall. He waited for her laugh, or her frustrated order. Even a footstep.  _Please tell me to do this_.

If there was a single hope for pulling back that honor and integrity to this world, wasn't it their duty to pursue it? But he remembered Surana's words all too well.  _There's nothing we can do, Howe. That's not how the Fade works_. The Fade worked by creating dreams that would evaporate come morning, or a healthy splash of ice water to the face. He bowed his head.

 _Give her rest_ , Surana had said.  _That's what you'd want somebody to do for you, right?_

With a frustrated growl, he lifted the sword. He did still have a shred of his old honor left to him, and his badly reined anger. That was what carried him forward a few quick, sharp steps, and what brought his arm down in an arc that held enough force to sever the revenant's head.

The helmet fused to what had once been Cauthrien's scalp clanged as it rolled across the stone. His sword followed it.

He turned to see Surana, waiting where he had imagined her. She had the decency not to clap, or even smile. She simply motioned with a jerk of her head to the hallway. Once he was gone, she would burn the body.

 _The body_  hung limp and lifeless, finally just bone and skin and rot and nothing more. It looked hollow.

He turned and left.

* * *

"She was a good woman," Surana said the next morning when he still couldn't summon even a nipping comment, let alone a biting remark. She must have been able to see something written in his face, or perhaps in the crown of his head as he bowed it, hiding his grimace. "I'm glad I was able to speak with her. To know that... she approved of what I did."

He grunted.

"She... was relieved. That you were alive."

Surana nodded. "I got that impression. She fought as hard for me as she ever did with Loghain. I think that means she liked me." Her lips curled.

He hummed assent, then tried to drink the hot tisane somebody had set before him. It was lukewarm now. It was bitter and pungent. Unpleasant. He set the cup down far away from him.

"Well," Surana said. "Back to Amaranthine then, I suppose. Excited to be going home?"

* * *

The Hafter was swollen this time of year.

There had been no service held over her ashes, and it only took half a day's delay to find Cauthrien's old home and leave a memorial offering there at the edge of the northern field, near the tree she had shown him. He trusted it was the right tree. In truth, the memory of it was already failing.

The cottage, at least, was real. There was no sign of the bench her father had carved, and there were other differences, large and small. The roof had fallen in. But if he stood on the porch and squinted, he could almost imagine the tall weeds that had taken over the land were towering crops.

And then it was time to go.

* * *

"Aren't you going to ask what I saw? When the demon got me?" Nathaniel asked as their horses plodded along the old road towards the keep. Surana hadn't mentioned Cauthrien since the farm, but she was still all he thought about. His dreams echoed what he'd lived for that brief period, and the nights he didn't wake up in a cold sweat, afraid that the demon of sloth had him once more, he didn't want to wake up at all, hoping that it was really her on the other side of the Veil.

"Are you going to ask me?" Surana asked.

Nathaniel frowned. "No."  _I'm not interested in what you saw_. It had barely occurred to him that she'd seen anything, and he looked away.

"I find," Surana said, "that these things are private matters. Though your entire stay seems to have been a private matter." She was laughing at him. He glanced skyward.

"I miss her," he said after a moment, the words barely audible even in the still early evening air.

"She was just a dream of a ghost, Howe," Surana said, nudging her horse to a faster trot. "Just remember that you didn't really lose anything."

* * *

His room in the Vigil was cold and dark when they arrived, no runner sent ahead to warn of their coming and have the fires lit. He was saddlesore and weary. Gingerly, he felt at his side. The ride had jarred the raw new flesh there, a reminder of where the revenant had nearly killed him. Soon, there wouldn't be so much as a pink line to remind him of that, either.

He shucked his riding leathers, bearing the chill and ignoring the hearth. This was a room he had once played in, as a boy. Could he reconstruct it from bare memory, from desperation for home? He ran his hand along the wall. Did he know the bumps, the irregularities, the details? And would the Taint even allow him to construct his own crypt when he died?

He tried to tell himself that he didn't need to think so far ahead. He had thirty years. He had a family, of a sort, and no matter what the demon had said, he hadn't abandoned them. And he had Surana, and the Wardens, and a purpose. This was all a momentary lapse, grief for a fallen comrade. It would pass. It must pass. Life would overtake death. He had known her for the blink of an eye, and had never really felt her breath upon his lips.

Reaching a corner, he turned. A few steps more took him to the dusty vanity, with its uneven glass mirror. There was an edge of cold dawn peeking into the room, and he stared into the glass until he could make out the edges of his face.

 _There_. The lips, the line of the throat, the  _eyes_ \- it was all so clear, her features overlaying his. He reached out a hand to touch the mirror. That wild thought took root, seized control of him.  _He hadn't lost anything_. If Justice could have followed them out of the Fade all those months ago, if he could have taken up a dead body, then partnered with a living one-

He shaped her name with his mouth.

The illusion shattered.

He was alone. And Maker, he was tired.


End file.
